the devil is in the details
by OuEstLaCraie
Summary: A chance encounter in a Baghdad bar hints at a future partnership between Bela Talbot and Peter Bishop. One-shot.


_I own no one and nothing and I would never dream of using them to make money. Title comes from a song off the _Hanna _soundtrack. This is a strange little plot bunny-driven one-shot that popped into my head recently, probably because I'm both catching up on _Fringe _and watching Bela's greatest hits from _Supernatural's _season three. Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>the devil is in the details<strong>

Bela Talbot drank a silent toast to another day she'd survived, unscathed, as she watched the sun set behind the slums. She didn't take much pleasure in sunsets, anymore. Nor sunrises. Nor any of the usual things that were supposed to make one happy just to be alive. Bela liked to think it was because she wasn't exactly _excited _to greet each new day. She was living on borrowed time, after all, time that was steadily running out. She could never fully enjoy a quiet moment, knowing it was one of her last.

She often imagined Lilith settled somewhere, surrounded by hourglasses full of red sand, holding one in her hand and smirking at the distorted image of Bela knocking back another drink in another nameless bar. Bela shook the fantasy away in time to lean away from the railing, avoiding the curious glances of another convoy of American soldiers. They were constantly prowling the marketplace, the dessert, entering homes and offices without regard for anyone's privacy. She knew they weren't the police – MI6, Interpol, the CIA, _anyone_ worth worrying about – and they weren't the least bit interested in her, but old habits die hard. She waited until they were gone to order another drink.

"_Is this chair free?_" a man asked, his Arabic not as sloppy as Bela would have expected from someone with that grotesque New England accent. She raised her head, the scarf slipping back a bit from her forehead, and leaned back in her chair to study her drinking companion. He was tall, close-cropped brown hair, bright eyes full of mischief and mirth, like a child's. His stance betrayed him as an American, that cocky self-assurance, that wily grin. She would have guessed his nationality from a mile away, even if she hadn't already spotted him in the city and done her homework. But he clearly knew his way around Baghdad, and he didn't scare easy. She had to applaud him for that.

Bela raised her eyebrows. "_Have a seat_," she replied, also in the local tongue, not to be outdone. She let him order them both a round of drinks before pronouncing, "_You're not from around here._"

"Is it that obvious?" he replied in English, laughing easily. He thanked the waiter for their drinks when they arrived, then turned back to her. "From your attitude, I'd bet you aren't, either."

"No," Bela said, a light smile playing on her lips. "I'm not."

"You're English?"

"Very astute."

He grinned. "I pride myself on my intellect." He took a hearty sip from his glass, then set it aside. "I'd have to guess you're not Muslim, either. Not exactly devout, anyway."

Bela tugged the scarf back into place, covering her hair and head, and explained, "It's easier to blend in when you stop pestering people about their beliefs and just give it a go. No one would talk to me if I didn't at least make the attempt." She raised her own glass, first to the man seated across from her, then to her lips. "Chin-chin."

"Right. Cheers."

They drank, though Bela wasn't quite sure what to, and then fell into a companionable silence. Bela watched the last rays of light fade from the sky, leaving behind trails of stars you wouldn't have a chance in hell of seeing back in New York. Her companion appeared equally occupied, watching the comings and goings of people on the street below, either making last-minute deals or packing in their wares for the evening.

The man took another long swallow from his glass, resting his hand back on the table with the glass balanced in his fingers and condensation running over the back of his hand. Bela felt his eyes on her, but she wouldn't be the first to budge. He cracked. "So, what brings you to Baghdad, Ms….?"

Bela leaned back comfortably in her chair and said simply, "Talbot."

"Ms. Talbot, then. What could possibly possess you to enter a war zone?"

"Work," she replied. She reached for her glass, took a delicate sip, and crossed her legs under the table. Her smile was a little forced, though she'd had enough practice at making men believe what they wanted to. When he seemed about to inquire further, she added smoothly, "Classified, I'm afraid. You'll understand."

"Of course." He bowed his head. "You must work for…the military, then?"

"Private clients," she corrected. "Citizens. Nobody special, really."

"You're lying."

"You're the only one who's ever noticed." She picked up her glass for another sip, her smile a bit more genuine now, and he laughed quietly again. Bela set the glass back on the table, running her index finger around the edge. "But what about you, Mr. Bishop? Business or pleasure?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, the subtle shift in his mood from cavalier to suspicious barely perceptible. "I don't think I…"

"You didn't give me your name," she hurried to assure him, if only to show off. "We hardly exchanged any of the usual banalities – thank God for small favors." She tilted her head to one side. "I just like to keep informed." She grinned. "Peter."

"Oh?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, working hard to keep his face pleasant, his body language relaxed. "And what have you found out about me, Ms….?"

"Talbot," she told him again, then cleared her throat. "You lied your way into MIT. You're a very gifted man, Mr. Bishop. Some would say it was unfortunate that you put your talents to such use."

"You're implying I'm a bad person?"

"Tsk-tsk, sir. I imply nothing. And I'm not judging you. You asked what I knew, and I'm telling you. I know _everything_. I know everything about everyone, down to all the dirty laundry and every skeleton in the closet. You can see how that might get me into trouble. So, you might call all this knowledge…a professional hazard. I don't always _mean _to collect it, but it does often prove useful." She polished off her drink. "How is that weapons intelligence helping your rebel friends? How many of your own soldiers have you killed this month?"

He didn't rise to the bait. Bela couldn't hide her awe; it was clear on her face, in the way she had to hold back applause, again, at Mr. Peter Bishop's resolve. She'd underestimated him. Rather than alarm her, Bela merely noted how much more beneficial this could be. He would be an asset, as a contact, an ally, perhaps even a sometime partner, when they crossed paths.

"Well, this hardly seems fair," he said, his tone still light and friendly. He was playing with her. Bela realized, too late, that he was up to something. "You, knowing all this about me – practically my entire biography – and, there I was, a few weeks ago, and, you know, I couldn't find a damn thing on Bela Talbot."

She smiled, her lips tight. "I suppose I'm just better at covering my tracks than you are, Peter, darling."

"Hardly," he scoffed, glancing at the bar to signal for another drink. "You're a thief, and there are plenty of angry people out there, willing to spill everything they know about you."

"It shouldn't be much."

"More than you'd like, I'm guessing."

"You're lying."

"I'm calling your bluff."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Semantics," she said, pronouncing the word like a challenge.

The drinks were delivered, a fresh round for them both, and when the waiter left, Peter was grinning again. "You don't like losing, do you, sweetheart?"

"If you know so much about me, then why are you here?" Bela asked, ignoring her drink as she watched him swallow half of his in one go. "You must have known where I was to find me, must've known who I was the minute you walked through the door."

He seemed surprised. "Why wouldn't I try to find you?"

"You fancy yourself such a gentleman," she said, her voice dangerous. "What a hero complex you have! I know you must find me despicable. Why stoop so low?"

"Ours is not to judge," he said, then smirked. "But maybe I'm paraphrasing."

"'Judge not, that ye be not judged,'" Bela quoted. "Matthew 7:1. King James Bible, Cambridge edition."

"How could I forget? Finish your drink." He took his own advice, then sighed. "Listen, I didn't come here to argue. I figured we could just have a couple of drinks and get to know each other, separate fact from fiction. I'm incapable of making an honest living, and so are you. We're a matched set, two sides of the same coin, a pair of shoes…"

Bela raised an eyebrow. "Not that I don't enjoy American colloquialisms, but what _are _you getting at, Mr. Bishop?"

To her surprise, he simply extended his right hand across the table. Peter shrugged. He gestured for her to take his hand when she didn't immediately react, then rolled his eyes. "Come on. Don't tell me you didn't read all about me and not think, 'Now, there's a guy who'll do anything to make a buck.'"

"I'm not sure I phrased it _exactly_ like that…"

He made a face. "Can we just agree to disagree and strike some kind of uneasy partnership?" She didn't move. "Shake my damn hand!"

"Fine, fine. You're right." She took his hand firmly in her own and they shook. "I thought you were the lowest of the low, myself excluded, of course. Which means I thought very highly of you. I had hoped you'd be a tad taller, though."

"Devil's in the details," he replied. He was eyeing her drink. "You gonna finish that?"


End file.
